


Worship At The Alter Of You

by CosmicOcelot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Shaming, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Tummy kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-03 01:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: Alternative Title: 5 Times Crowley Defended Aziraphale's Body Type And Penchant For Food, And 1 Time Aziraphale Returned The Favour





	Worship At The Alter Of You

5\. 

“Any truth to it then?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him over his wine before lowering it to their shared table.

“Any truth to what?”

“You know.” Aziraphale waves his hand around in what he hopes is a casually vague manner, “The… _reports_ that have been circling about our dear Emperor.”

“If by reports you mean _salacious rumors_ ,” Crowley drawls, smirk pulling on the edges of his lips before giving way to a shrug, “then I can’t help you there.”

Aziraphale hesitates, holding back a sigh of relief, best to be sure and all that. “So, it’s not true then? Any of it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Crowley takes another sip of wine. “Some of it could be true, I suspect parts of it are—but you know how this lot gets when people in power muck it up. Can’t just be a series of good old-fashioned cock-ups, there’s got to be some dark, twisted sexuality to it all; wouldn’t be any fun to talk about otherwise.”

“Right.” Aziraphale says, feeling slightly sick, images of the Emperor’s _‘twisted sexuality’_ flashing in his mind’s eye.

“I expect you won’t have to worry about it much longer,” Crowley says, as though he can tell what Aziraphale is thinking, “the senate’s about as ready to throw him out on his ear as the rest of them are.”

Aziraphale sighs in relief. “Oh, good, well, that’s something.”

He turns his attention to Crowley’s plate, still mostly full of oysters, and frowns. “Did you not enjoy them?”

“I did.” Crowley says, and then shrugs in answer to Aziraphale’s confused look. “I’m just not that mad about food as you are…don’t need much to feel sated.”

He pushes the plate towards Aziraphale. “You can have the rest if you’d like.”

“Oh—I—I shouldn’t.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’ve already had a plate of my own and well,” he wrings his hands a little helplessly, “heaven doesn’t exactly approve of my indulging in the finer things.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be blending in, incognito and all that? Be a bit strange if one of Rome’s most affluent merchants never ate.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale huffs, “there’s something to be said for moderation, Crowley; though I hardly expect you to understand.”

Because why would he? Crowley takes what he wants, indulges in his sporadic impulses of hedonism without so much as a second thought. The only question he asks is not ‘ _should I do this?’_ but rather ‘ _why **shouldn’t** I do this_?’

Crowley shrugs, but doesn’t argue back, and Aziraphale takes another gulp of his wine, determined not to feel guilty and determined not to look at the easy, loose, way that the demon holds himself and the handsome angles of his body lit by the candles surrounding them.

“Suit yourself.” Crowley says, taking the plate and lifting it off the table, “Be a shame for them to go to waste though.”

And then he proceeds to start tipping the plate over onto the floor, the oysters barely saved by Aziraphale’s quick thinking and even quicker reflexes. 

“For heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale snaps, taking the plate from Crowley and bringing it over to his side of the table, “if you’re going to be like that about it.”

He lifts one of the oysters to his mouth and slurps it down, not quite managing to hold back the satisfied smile that pulls at the corners of his lips; these were quite the oysters after all, it would have been an absolute crime to just dump them onto the floor.

Crowley doesn’t reply, but for a moment Aziraphale swears he can see him smile behind his wine.   
  
  
4\. 

“If you keep feeding them that bread, they’re going to forget how to hunt.”

Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes. “Crowley, they’re _ducks_ , they don’t hunt.”

“These ones don’t.” Crowley replies. “Imagine what would happen if the world suddenly ran out of bread, they’d be tits up in a matter of hours.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, but he feels a fond smile curling his lips. “If that did happen, I imagine that the ducks wouldn’t need to worry about what was on their menu so much as they would keeping off of someone else’s.”

“I suppose.” Crowley hums in agreement. “Speaking of menus, what’s on ours tonight?”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale says, excitement brimming within him, “tell me, my dear, have you ever had curry before?”

“Curry?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that then?”

The ducks clamor a little closer to the fence separating them from the other park denizens, and Aziraphale returns to his bread throwing. “Well, it’s this marvelous dish that’s been picking up speed in the aristocratic social circles, rumor has it that Queen Victoria herself is rather smitten with it.”

“Comes with stellar references then,” Crowley drawls, “had it before?”

“Oh, only a handful of times, but there’s this new restaurant that’s opened up around the corner from my shop, and I’ve had a mind to try it out for a while.”

Just a little ways away from the two of them, a pair of women are standing and watching the ducks as well, and the younger one catches Aziraphale’s attention when she nudges her companion and nods in their direction. He feels himself tense, gut clenching at the thought that they might reveal themselves as more than mere mortals, but then finds himself going stiff and still for an entirely different reason.

“You see, Edwina,” the woman mutters, voice low enough that if Crowley and Aziraphale were anything less than what they were than he wouldn’t have been able to hear them, “that’s what I was talking about. That’s what all the men are like these days, even more so since this whole curry craze started, all… _rounded out_.” 

She leans against the fence, rolling her eyes. “Nowadays you’d be lucky to find a man that has more weight in his coin purse than his middle; now that they’ve all decided it’s alright to look like that one there.”

Ugly, awful, heat crawls up Aziraphale’s face and he would like nothing more to be a thousand miles from here, and at this exact moment the idea of discorporation and all the paperwork that it carries with it doesn’t seem so bad.

Distantly, he’s aware of a snap, and then suddenly the section of fence that the woman is leaning against is gone, and she falls into the river with an extremely undignified screech and floundering splash.

He whirls around to look at Crowley, who has the look of someone caught just seconds after yanking their hand out of a cookie jar, convinced they are hidden behind a thin veneer of plausible deniability.

“You were saying something about lunch, Angel?” Crowley asks, offering his arm to him, and Aziraphale shoots him a withering look before taking it.

“You didn’t need to do that.” He tells him, as he guides them past the woman who is shrieking at her friend to help her up and desperately fighting off the frenzy of ducks who have surrounded her like she is the embodiment of bread itself.

“I haven’t a clue what you mean.” Crowley returns, and Aziraphale doesn’t push it further, just holds the warm, soft feeling it sparks within him close, where it remains for the rest of the evening.

3.

“Thoughts?”

“Good.”

Aziraphale sighs more than a little bit exasperatedly. “ _Just_ good?”

“What do you want me to say, Angel?” Crowley snaps, “That it was magnificent, exquisite, the best grain product I’ve ever had in my existence?”

“I would like,” Aziraphale snaps back, “for you to try and subsist on something other than coffee and alcohol.”

“I don’t need to _subsist_ on anything.” Crowley mutters stubbornly, picking up his teacup as though it's personally slighted him. “It’s not like I’m going to starve.”

Crowley might not need to eat, neither of them do truly, but his body could do with some food now and then. 6000 years of subsisting on the bare minimum has left it lean with sharp angles that, while they make Aziraphale’s mouth dry when accentuated by the clear lines of Crowley’s outfits, also make him fret. He remembers the days after Crowley had woken up from his century of sleeping, the way his bones stuck out from the skin until Aziraphale had practically forced three square meals a day down his throat for a good month. 

Aziraphale lets out another sigh, this fight isn’t worth having right now, and signals for the waiter.

“Yes, Monsieur Fell?” The waiter demurs in an atrocious French accent, and he hears Crowley stifle another snort beside him. Despite privately concurring, however, there is something to be said for politeness.

He smiles amiably at the poor fellow. “Could you bring us the check please?”

“You do not want me to bring the dessert menu?” The waiter asks, cocking his head to the side as his brow furrows in confusion.

Patience beginning to wear thin, he forces himself to smile. “No, just the check.”

“You are feeling alright, Monsieur?” The waiter presses, still not getting the blasted check, “usually you are ordering at least one item from the dessert menu, no?”

It’s not meant to be malicious, at least, he doesn’t think so, but his face goes a terrible shade of red, sharp embarrassment stinging through him at having his gluttony called out so openly; and in front of _Crowley_ of all people.

“I’m fine—just—bring the check.” Aziraphale struggles not to snap, gritting the words out past his teeth instead, which he’s certain isn’t much better.

The waiter doesn’t seem to pick up on it though, moving away slowly with that same concerned look on his face, turning to finally retrieve their check—

Only to trip over thin air and fall right into the remains of a couple’s dinner still waiting to be cleared from their table, smearing his pristine white outfit with a myriad of colourful foods.

Aziraphale snaps his head back to look at Crowley, who is finishing the last of his coffee and determinedly not looking at where the waiter is cursing with what sounds like a very strong cockney accent. 

“That was very unkind of you, and completely unnecessary.” Aziraphale admonishes, struggling to fight down the fond surge that rises up within him as he sees Crowley roll his eyes behind his glasses, keeping his voice low and stern. “The poor boy was only doing his job.”

“I didn’t know being a knob was part of a waiter’s job description.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“ _Aziraphale_.” Crowley says, repeating the angel’s tone with a slight mocking lilt, tilting his coffee back to drain the last of the dregs. “Fancy waiting around for him to make his way back, or—?”

With a snap, the check is in his hands, and he’s tearing out a page from his cheque-book to cover the cost of their meal, making sure to leave a sizeable tip for the poor lad. 

“Right then,” Crowley says, as the two of them stand and make their way out of the restaurant, “drink at yours?”

“You’re incorrigible.” Aziraphale tells him, but leads the way, thinking about what the best bottle to pair with that cheeseboard he has in the fridge would be.

2\. 

“I’m going out for a bit.”

Crowley looks at him over the top of a copy of _The Wizard Of Oz_ from where he’s reclining on the bookshop couch. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Just…out.” Aziraphale offers, and then thinks better of it when Crowley’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “I’ve got to meet with someone who might have some old copies of Lord Byron’s works they’d be willing to part with. I’ll be back before tea.”

“Oh, right then.” Crowley says, interest successfully disarmed, and returns his attention back to his book. “See you later.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing down the shaky, sweaty, nervous feeling threatening to overwhelm him; turning and leaving the shop before he can reconsider it.

It’s been a few weeks since the-end-of-the-world-that-wasn’t, and Crowley has taken up residence in the bookshop, slowly moving in his things as though if he does it at a leisurely pace then Aziraphale won’t notice the 4 foot violently verdant plant or the flat screen tv or how his closet suddenly has far more black articles of clothing in it. But in the end nothing has really changed between the two of them, save for the fact that this unspoken heaviness between them has grown weightier, like a lead balloon slowly and steadily heading toward a ground obscured by a thick fog—leaving the when of the imminent crash a mystery, only that it is about to happen, well, imminently.

But every time he thinks of it, of the places they could go when that balloon finally goes up in flames, he hears Gabriel’s voice in the back of his head, poking his stomach and telling him to get himself back into shape.

Crowley is sensuality—is _desire_ —given flesh. Sharp, clearly defined lines and careful, yet casual, handsomeness—Aziraphale had caught sight of him this morning with his long limbs splayed out carelessly over the couch, a ray of sun through the bookshop windows making his hair catch fire, yellow eyes focused so intently on his book—lost so thoroughly in a story of emerald cities and wicked witches—that it made Aziraphale’s heart ache.

How could he be worthy of _coveting_ someone like that, of coveting _Crowley_ , when his own looks are so… _soft_ in comparison?

The place is easy to find, and it takes only a mere thought, barely a miracle really, to change his attire to match that of those inside. He dithers around outside for a moment before realizing he’s attracting more attention than simply going in would and opening the door with a slight flush darkening his cheeks.

The receptionist at the desk gives him a once over, a searing look from top to bottom that makes him feel that much more embarrassed, and he clears his throat in an attempt to regain some control over the situation and his emotions. 

“I have an appointment with a personal trainer, I believe his name is Dave?” Aziraphale asks, and the woman turns back to her computer, clicking away.

“Dave…Dave…that’d be Mr. Fell for 10:00, correct?”

“Yes, quite correct.” Aziraphale rushes to say, “Rather exciting, the first time, isn’t it?”

“Can be.” The receptionist returns neutrally, then nods her head towards the main exercise area. “Dave should be just through there, black hair, blue t-shirt, lifting weights, you can’t miss him.”

“Oh, right, well,” Aziraphale flusters for a moment, “thank you.”

The receptionist doesn’t reply, and after a moment more of hesitating Aziraphale decides to head into the next room.

Dave is indeed easy to find, and he doesn’t stop lifting weights as Aziraphale approaches him with no small amount of trepidation.

“You my 10:00 then?” He asks, neck bulging as he lifts the bar above his head. “Bell?”

“Fell, actually.” Aziraphale corrects and feels rather off put when the man doesn’t even bother to offer an apology, rushing to fill the silence that pops up between them. “So, how does this work, exactly. It’s my first time, you see, with a personal trainer that is.”

“Really.” Dave looks him up and down like the receptionist had. “Didn’t exactly need to spell that out, did you?” 

That same, awful, hot curl of misery is back, and Aziraphale feels his face go about fifteen shades darker than it was already. He opens his mouth to respond, to salvage the tattered remains of his dignity somehow—

And then is cut off by a frightfully loud snap as the end of Dave’s weight bar breaks and sends those circular weights crashing directly down onto his foot.

His would-be-personal-trainer howls, dropping to the floor and clutching his foot as the receptionist from the front runs through.

“Dave,” She looks between the injured man and the broken metal, her face a mix of panic and bewilderment, “what happened—?”

“Christ’s sake, Laura, call an ambulance.” Dave gasps out through gritted teeth. “I think my foot’s broken.”

As the receptionist darts off to telephone for the paramedics, Aziraphale catches sight of a flash of red hair outside the window, glinting like it had in the sunlight back at the shop—gone too fast to really be sure.

And yet, he is anyway.

1.

Crowley’s hair is soft as Aziraphale’s fingers stroke it absently, mind caught up in the wonderfully horrific world of Frankenstein and enjoying the way the demon has curled around him in his sleep; fatigue is an acceptable tradeoff for their…activities earlier, as is the way that his face is currently nestled on Aziraphale’s stomach.

The first sign that he is returning to the land of the living is the soft kiss he presses into Aziraphale’s stomach, followed shortly thereafter by many slower, slightly sloppy, languid ones gently laid over and over into his skin.

“Have a nice nap, did you?” Aziraphale asks dryly, but he closes his eyes to savor the soft warmth of Crowley’s lips, humming contentedly and placing the book on the bedside table so he’s able to give stroking the demon’s hair his full attention.

Crowley mumbles something that will probably be coherent words when he can manage to open his eyes for longer than three second intervals, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s stomach with a pleased hum.

“My dear, wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the pillow?” Aziraphale asks, but Crowley shakes his head.

“ ‘S nice here.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer…” Aziraphale hesitates, then rushes forward in a sudden desire to know, “wouldn’t you prefer it if it was more…”

Crowley lifts his head and blinks up at him blearily, and Aziraphale feels a stab of guilt for asking the question when Crowley is barely aware enough to form words, but he doesn’t try and take it back.

It takes Crowley a moment to understand the question, but when he does he shakes his head with absolutely no hesitation and it makes Aziraphale’s heart swell.

“No,” Crowley says simply, pressing more kisses into Aziraphale’s stomach, leaving three times as many as he had last time, “you’re all soft, and warm, and nice…‘s perfect— _you’re_ perfect.”

Aziraphale huffs. “For cuddling maybe…” He trails off as he meets where Crowley is staring up at him, eyes narrowed and lips turned into a slight scowl, “Really, my dear, you can’t honestly tell me that during, well, other activities, you wouldn’t prefer to feel something a little more, well… _robust_.”

“Thought I had felt something rather _robust_ actually.” Crowley drawls.

Aziraphale shoots him a look. “Crowley—”

“What’s the matter, angel?” Crowley murmurs, crawling up the bed so that he’s leaning over Aziraphale slightly, lips hovering mere millimeters from his, “Did I not scream enough for you?”

Aziraphale swallows down the image of Crowley writhing beneath him, how the muscles in his back had rippled, head pressed into the pillow to try and muffle his cries—the only time he’s ever seen Crowley try to practice self-restraint—while his hands clutched the sheets so tightly he’d thought they might tear. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Hmm. Then what are you saying?” Crowley hums, before pressing kisses along the side of Aziraphale’s jaw and down his throat, everywhere but his lips.

Aziraphale closes his eyes briefly to savor the sensations, before forcing them open again as he tries to make his mouth form the words. “Just…wouldn’t you prefer it if I was more…fit?”

Crowley lifts his head up and meets Aziraphale’s eyes, just looking into them for a moment before he answers.

“No.”

Aziraphale feels himself let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, as Crowley tucks his head into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and wraps his body around him, murmuring the next words into the angel’s skin.

“You’re bloody perfect, just as you are.” Crowley’s teeth nip his neck in warning, “And don’t let me catch you saying otherwise.”

Aziraphale lets himself just bathe in the words for a moment, and the blinding warmth that they inspire within him, before tugging Crowley’s head up by his hair to meet his lips, savoring him like he had those other kisses and words; their hands reaching out and entwining together on the sheets.

+1.

“Wha’s this again?”

“I believe it’s called _‘sex on the beach’_.”

“Tha’s good.” Crowley grins, quite significantly more drunk than either of them had planned to be that evening, at least, at the restaurant that is. “Clever little humans coming up with clever little names for things.”

Aziraphale hums in answer, and surreptitiously pushes more bread in Crowley’s direction; much as he is enjoying the flush on Crowley’s cheeks and the easy smiles the alcohol is pulling out of him, it wouldn’t do them any good for Crowley to get drunk enough that he starts turning ducks into hunting machines again. The denizens of London have rather suffered enough for one millennium, what with all that bus palaver. 

They’re in a new, modern restaurant with rather a lot of exposed brick wall and hanging light bulbs, the interior sleek and sophisticated while managing to be minimalistic as well. The food, however, had been a bit of a letdown really, nothing quite as good as he’d been led to believe by a woman that he had reluctantly let buy a fifth edition of _The Picture Of Dorian Grey_ from him; but Crowley has certainly enjoyed the mixed drinks, ordering one of each from the menu—to the alarm of the restaurant’s staff, who Aziraphale suspects are just waiting for the demon to keel over so they can call an ambulance.

A burst of raucous laughter interrupts the otherwise quiet room and Aziraphale feels himself grow that much more terse—perhaps the disappointment in the food might’ve been manageable if it weren’t for a group of businessmen who sat down almost at the same time they did and were being rather less sporting about being drunk of their arses than Crowley was.

“You know what you need,” the one with the terrible necktie that had assaulted Aziraphale’s eyes has soon as they walked in nudges the man sitting next to him, “a good shag, get all that stress out of your system.”

He nods towards Aziraphale and Crowley’s table, more specifically, he nods at Crowley. “What about someone like him?”

Aziraphale feels a hot curl of something in his gut and he places his hand on top of Crowley’s in a manner that is perhaps a little bit proprietary, but if the demon notices he doesn’t say anything about it. 

The other man turns to follow his friend’s gaze and Aziraphale steels himself for the look that will follow the curves of Crowley’s body and the hunger that will flicker to life within those eyes—

But the man screws up his face instead, like Crowley is about as appetizing as a roach that has crawled out from under an old musty sofa, and Aziraphale feels an entirely different kind of heat in his chest.

“That one?” The man shakes his head. “No, look at him, he’s more bones than skin, one wrong move and he’d probably poke your eye out.”

“Too right.” Another man at the table nods, taking a swig of his beer. “Can you imagine trying it on with him? He looks like he’d split in half in you tried to shove him down on your—”

The room around the men’s table shakes violently, food and drinks flying up everywhere as they attempt to duck under the table, shoving and pushing one another out of the way in a panic. And when the shaking finally comes to a standstill, the ceiling above them releases a thick layer of dust that coats them completely, leaving them all looking like they were caught in the middle of a food and flour whirlwind.

Crowley finishes his drink, which has remained undisturbed by so much as a ripple in the extremely localized earthquake that just occurred, and smirks at Aziraphale over the glass.

“Temper, temper.”

“I’m quite certain I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale replies, too busy paying for their meal to bother giving the shell-shocked business men any attention. “Now, I think it’s about time we headed out, don’t you?” 

Crowley stands up from their booth and slides his hand into Aziraphale’s, holding it tightly and grinning insufferably the whole way home.


End file.
